


Breaking Serenity

by EmbryonicHarmonic



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Kidnapping, M/M, Rape, Rape Recovery, Torture, Violence, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:39:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4301583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmbryonicHarmonic/pseuds/EmbryonicHarmonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is always a moment before he opens his eyes where he thinks that perhaps he is back home. </p><p>Safe.</p><p>Warm.</p><p>And then he hears the click of a lock on the door, and the cold pulls him back into waking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Into Pandora's Box

It is the fourth drink where Charles starts to think perhaps he should stop drinking and go home. After all, he’s already sent everyone else ahead. One more drink, he says. Only one. And of course, it has been two, and he is looking at the bottom of another one when he begins to think it is time for him to stop. Pay the tab. Go home. Apologize to Raven and Erik and Hank for being late. The alcohol is already settling on the edges of his vision, and despite how warm he feels, his better senses tell him to stop. In a rare moment of responsibility, he stops. 

Tab paid, coat around him, Charles steps out onto the street, the cool night air bringing some sense of clarity to his slightly blurry thoughts. It is hardly a long walk home, but it is so peaceful that the telepath thinks perhaps he can take his time and sober up a little on the way. After all, most of the bars are full and there are hardly any cars on the street. It feels quiet for once, and he feels content. 

That is, of course, until he stops at a light and waits to cross. Something begins feeling less kind, more vile. They aren’t his thoughts, but around all sides of him he feels a pressure, a malice that seems to be seeping around him. He taps his foot nervously and starts to shuffle across the street when the light changes in his favor. Through the alcohol he can feel the fear building in him. 

There is a sudden screeching sound that grabs his attention, a car slamming on its brakes in the intersection to not hit someone. Only later would he realize the noise was to mask the sound of Azazel’s teleportation, to distract him and look away while the Russian appears behind him. There is no chance to scream, a heavy hand over his mouth and strong arm across his chest dragging him off balance enough to be taken away. In a flash, he’s surrounded by cold and shadow, and the instant it consumes him, it’s goe and he is dropped to the floor in a private lounge. 

Needless to say, any sense of being intoxicated had fled his system, save for a lingering sense of his mind swimming slightly. 

“So glad you could join us, Xavier.”

He knows the voice from Erik’s nightmares and it makes his skin crawl. Charles lifts his head, trying to push himself upright only to have Azazel pull him to his knees by the back of his coat. He can see Shaw, sitting calmly with a glass of scotch, smiling down at him with less than pure intentions in his eyes. 

“I’m sure you want answers, of course, so I’ll make this easy for you.” He doesn’t move from where he is seated, taking a sip of his drink. “Either you and your little group surrender to us immediately, or we do this the hard way, and you never see the light of day again.”

The shock that flickers in Charles’ mind answers for him, more or less, that he would never do such a thing. He’s a peaceful creature, one who doesn’t want war, to fight, or cause anyone pain. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have much to bargain with, it is just him and his telepathy. 

“You must be joking if you think I would ever agree to that.” Charles’ tone is bitter, possibly spiteful. His answer only draws a laugh from both men in the room, and it makes his insides twist to the point of feeling sick. He doesn’t know what sort of horror will be visited on him, but he knows it is going to hurt. 

Shaw motions slightly, and Azazel’s arm snapped around his throat, pulling the shorter telepath to his feet. Charles starts to flail, trying to pull the other mutant’s arm away as he began struggling to breathe. Whatever was said between his captors, he didn’t exactly catch. The darkness and cold swept around him again and when he was dropped, the floor was cold stone and the room was dark. He coughed, gasping for breath with his head spinning slightly. It left him disoriented, barely aware of the red mutant ripping off his coat and the distinct sound of metal restraints being shifted around. 

His wrists were pulled behind his back, locked together so tightly that he couldn’t budge his restraints. Probably to keep him from using his powers, he figures, but he is hardly in a position to fight, not with how weakened he’s become. 

What catches him off-guard is a thin band of metal locking around his neck, and Azazel pulls on a chain, hooking it to the wall and forcing Charles to sit up or risk strangling himself. Was this what Shaw meant? To lock him up forever? He had said to not see the light of day. Charles hardly has a moment to think before he hears the sound of a belt being undone, followed by a zipper. 

“Oh God, n--” 

He doesn’t have a moment to finish his sentence before fingers curl into his hair and Azazel’s cock is shoved past his lips and down his throat. The telepath tries to thrash, tries to free his head and mouth despite his hands being locked down and his legs nowhere near able to kick out at his assailant. And yet for as much as he struggles, he can’t entirely fight the urge to suck the devil off. He’s so used to Erik, to the two of them getting more than a little rough together, and his body is used to the treatment, expecting bruises to be tended to and for his partner to take care of him when they are finished. Right now, he is certain that won’t happen. 

Arousal is the wrong response, his body betraying the thoughts in his head trying to scream at him and tell him no. It isn’t Erik gripping his hair and it isn’t Erik’s dick but his body can’t tell the difference. And it goes, it keeps going until his throat is raw and he can barely breathe, and even when he’s trying to speak and beg for it to stop, Azazel doesn’t. He goes, rougher and harder until his free hand pulls at the chain on Charles’ collar, strangling the poor telepath through the devil’s orgasm and leaving him struggling not to choke on his semen when he was released.

He falls back against the wall, bile and semen dribbling down his chin and onto his shirt and he desperately tries to spit as much of it out as possible. Unfortunately that only seems to offend, and in the low light he can barely see the punch before it hits his face, eyelid starting to swell almost immediately. 

It starts to dawn on him that perhaps this is what Shaw actually meant, to keep him locked away and used until he had broken. Charles whimpers softly, his shoes scrabbling against the floor as he tried to tuck himself up in a small little bundle bound by chains. 

“They say the first time is always the worst.” 

Shaw. Shaw’s voice hit him and only then did Charles realize there was a door at the far end of the room. Where Azazel had teleported in, Shaw had merely walked. Dramatic bastard. He motions again, and Azazel once more pulls on the collar chain until Charles is forced to his feet, his smaller body trembling from sickness and fear. A bright light clicks on, shining in the telepath’s face and causing him to recoil, though all Shaw does is smile, inspecting the captive for his own means. 

“You should have taken the deal. After all, now the only way I’ll consider letting you go is if you beg, and you are far too proud for that.” 

It is a mistake, he knows it the moment he does it, but Charles takes the chance to spit a mix of saliva and cum into Shaw’s face, hearing the man make a displeased noise followed by his pet devil growling over a small laugh. He still doesn’t regret it, not even when there’s a hand around his throat and he can’t breathe, when his legs can’t touch the floor and the bright light is fading into darkness. 

When it stops, he’s on the floor again, lying on his side with his head spinning and the light no longer on him. The cell is empty, just him and the darkness and no way to focus his telepathy, though he guessed by the way the cell is built, there’s no way he would really be able to use it, all he hears is his own thoughts. 

Quietly, he hopes that he will be free or dead before Shaw touches him again.


	2. Abstract Victim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is relocated, and Shaw begins to play the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: drug use, rape, victim blaming

On the second day, he bit Azazel so hard the devil bled before the tip of his dick could hit the roof of his mouth.

The response had been delayed but intense. The devil fled, but there were men at the ready to beat the hell out of him.

Charles did not regret it.

He is a bundle on the floor, no longer chained down but they have been so kind as to strap a muzzle over his face. He can’t speak, can’t bite, but that only applies to his face. He is a mess of bruises and at least one cut over his eye as a result of what he could only assume was punishment. Of course, he had caused horrid damage to Azazel, and that was fine with him. Shaw had yet to show himself, and he was okay with that.

On the third day, the lights flood the room, and he recoils with a muffled yelp. He tried to cover his eyes, blinded at the sound of footsteps around him. Hands grabbed him, hauling him up to his feet and from the room, black spots in his vision and keeping him from seeing where he was brought. He was weak, tired and hurt, and moving him was painfully easy, he knew it. 

His restraints, all of them, are removed, muzzle briefly taken and set aside as he is shoved onto something soft and warm. A bed? Maybe, his eyes haven’t yet cleared, and he curls up small, bringing his hands to his eyes as if it would help him recover. There is only silence, and he doesn’t notice it until he feels as if he can open his eyes without feeling agony. It is several long minutes before Charles can look around, finding himself in a room bathed in reds and golds, and he is lying on a bed. 

His stomach turns as he starts to process what it might be used for. 

The trauma of having his face raped by Azazel hasn’t quite set in yet, and perhaps he is still in denial over the entire thing. Never happened, and whatever this is won’t happen. Block it out, pretend, Charles knows it’s not healthy but right now he is only really concerned with survival and escape. He can have issues later.

He doesn’t feel the need to get up yet. The bed is still soft and comfortable, so much nicer than the floor he was forced on, and he knows it is probably a trap but he can’t help but maybe close his eyes. 

A little sleep won’t hurt, will it?

He doesn’t even realize he’s fallen asleep until a cold hand on his cheek makes him jerk awake, and though groggy, Charles is staring up at Shaw, who looks far too pleased at him.

“This suits you far better. A treasured pet on a throne instead of in a cold cell.” His voice makes Charles insides turn.

The telepath pulls away, pushing himself upright. Was the world spinning so badly when he fell asleep? Wait, when had he last had food, or water? He couldn’t really remember, and he wasn’t quite alert enough to realize what Shaw is doing to him.

“You look ill, Charles. Do you want something to drink? No tricks, I assure you.” 

His better senses tell Charles to not trust him, but he knows he needs something, and he nods slowly, expecting to have to do something terrible in exchange for the glass of water that is placed at his bedside. Shaw encourages him to drink, and Charles does.

He doesn’t realize how badly he’s gotten until he starts to wake, his head feeling sluggish and his powers silent. No, restricted. Something was containing them, locking them in his own head. There is something over his eyes and he can’t see, but he can feel strong hands on his wrists and someone inside of him, each movement sharp and each burst of pain starting to cut through whatever drugs Shaw gave him. 

Charles screams, but he can’t even hear his own voice. He can’t hear the words Shaw says to him, the condescending pet names and the taunts. All he knows is that he’s still partially sedated, and that Shaw is actively raping him. He knows that Erik will never hear him, and perhaps never see him again. And not just Erik. Raven, Hank, Moria… they may never see him, and now he doesn’t think that they would ever want to be near him.

It lasts for far too long, his insides twisting with each thrust until Shaw hits his climax and Charles only feels wretched, in utter agony and hating himself. Why had he been so careless? Why hadn’t he done more to protect himself?

Why hadn’t he just gone home when Erik told him to? 

Part of him thinks it is his fault.

Even as Shaw pulls out of him and he feels leather cuffs fix around his wrists to keep him on the bed, Charles still thinks this is his fault, somehow. 

Maybe Erik wouldn’t even want him back now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking around for another chapter! Feedback is appreciated!


	3. A Beacon in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are no more chances for hope, safety and rescue. Hopefully, someone has heard him.

Charles can’t tell the days anymore.

It’s become a horrible cycle, having to rely on Shaw for every basic need, and it all comes with a price. He can’t tell if it’s the water that’s drugged, or the food, but he always can feel it. It’s not as if he can fight, his body still shackled to the bed and thoroughly incapacitated. He feels filthy, every time Shaw touches him, it makes him feel ill, and the more he merely submits, the more pleased his captor is. There’s nothing to him. No witty comments, no biting snark. 

Sometimes it’s not just Shaw. Sometimes Azazel gets his chance, and he rips the telepath to pieces. The physical wounds on his body have been stitched up repeatedly, and there are lines of black stitches crossing over his skin among the bruises. So much of him is weak and broken, and he repeatedly thinks that he’s become so dirty that no one would come for him, and no one would want him. When Shaw touches him again, he shuts his eyes and turns his head away. He tries to think of something else. He tries to think that he’s far away from the room and the bed, far away from the hands he feels on his skin and the teeth at his neck. 

“Now, Charles, I’m sure you know it’s rude to ignore your host.” Of course, Shaw knows, and the sudden pain digging into his sides draw him back to the reality of his situation with a pained scream. 

Charles forces his eyes open, glaring angrily at the man on top of him. He jerks against the restraints around his wrists in some attempt to fight. It’s useless, it always is, and they both know it. He’s playing into exactly what Shaw wants, and it makes him sick to think too much about. He’s become a toy, a bit of entertainment and nothing more. 

Shaw finally pulls away, stepping off the bed to retrieve something from the nearby armoire, one filled with all his horrible torture instruments that Charles dreads. The telepath tries to focus, looking around for some way to free himself, his slender fingers trying to fiddle with the buckle on one of his cuffs. While Shaw is distracted, he managed to get his thumb under the loop, and by the time his captor turned back, he had one hand free. 

They stared at one another for half a second, just realizing what was going on before they both acted. Charles snapped his fingers to his temple, projecting a cry for help as loud as he could to everyone he could reach. He didn’t know where he was, he didn’t know if anyone would her him, but it’s what he managed before Shaw reached him, and before he could try to mind control the other man. His hand was pulled from his temple, and with one horrible twist, Shaw snapped his wrist in pieces. 

That was it, there was his one chance for freedom, and he has no idea if someone heard him. 

He doesn’t see it, Shaw is too busy teaching him a lesson, but on the nightstand near his prison, the metal key to the door moves.

Erik heard him.


	4. No Dreams Only Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik arrives, finally. Charles can't escape how his nightmares have begun to grow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Victim blaming

There is a bandage over his eyes. 

Shaw told him that it was to keep the swelling down, but Charles knows otherwise. The more helpless he is, the easier it is for him to be controlled. His hands are no longer bound, and his wrists are broken too badly that he can’t even move his arms. The pain is incredible, shooting right into the core of him and it only feels amplified with every tense beat of his heart. There’s something else on his head, something cold and metal, and it blocks his powers. It is simple, but it traps the injured telepath so well that he has almost forgotten what the silence was like. But instead of being comforted, he is afraid. 

“You know, Charles, if you hadn’t tried that little stunt, I might have let you out of this room.” 

Shaw’s voice never ceases to make his skin crawl, even when his body has been ravaged and bruised, tainted so hard that Charles can’t even comprehend that anyone would ever want to be around him after this. It sickens him to know the term ‘damaged goods’ so intimately, and his breath hitches when he feels a hand on his chest. 

“But now I’ll never be able to do that. You’ll stay in here forever, no one will come for you.”

It’s as the words leave his mouth that Charles hears a faint hum through the metal around his head, and it soon resonates through the headboard of the bed, on the hinges on the door and through his very bones. Yes, someone was coming for him, and he doesn’t quite have the clarity of mind to speak before he hears the door outright shatter. Someone - he already knows it’s Erik - pulls the helmet from his head, and the voices flood into his mind again. It’s overwhelming, dizzying and disorienting. It throws him off enough that he doesn’t hear what is said between the two mutants, but he feels the anger, the fear, the fury, it all hits him and overpowers him. 

He wakes up in a hospital bed, the beeping of machines drowning out the throbbing in his ears. Both wrists are in casts, his cuts taken care of properly, but there’s nothing that can really shake how utterly wrong he feels. How dirty he feels. 

The light hurts his eyes at first, the sharp gasp he makes being enough to alert Erik that he’s awake. He feels a hand on his shoulder, and he flinches instinctively. Instead of staying, it pulls away, and the blanket is pulled up to his chest. 

“Shh, Charles. You’re safe now, I’m not going to hurt you.”

The lights are dimmed, and he can finally open his eyes, trying to take stock of himself, where he is and who he’s with. It’s only Erik, and he is both comforted and torn apart. He doesn’t want to be touched, doesn’t want Erik to become as utterly filthy as he’s become. The fear of rejection starts to grow, drowning out anything the other mutant says.

He doesn’t answer any questions, he simply starts to cry.


	5. The Dawn Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is home, and his recovery is rocky at best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Enjoy!

He hasn’t moved in a few hours. Before that, it had been a day.

Of course, he can hear Erik speaking to him, hurrying around him as he stays lying on the bathroom floor where he fell. He’s unharmed, mostly. Just another bruise to go with all of the others he’s still trying to heal from. It was just a fall. He doesn’t even care. He’s unresponsive save for the small sign of life that he is unharmed and wants to go back to bed. Erik picks him up, bundling him so carefully in his arms, and returns the injured man to bed.

He doesn’t respond to the words. He doesn’t even really hear them. It’s as if everything is muffled and dulled. He’s just lying against the pillows, head turned towards the windows with the blanket tucked around his lap. He’s so silent. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t even make any sort of sound. He only barely takes care of himself, he’s so consumed that he doesn’t even know how to pull himself out of the darkness.

Part of him wonders if he’s too broken.

Part of him knows he is.

He hates being touched. He hates it. Even when Erik picks him up when he falls, he hates it. He can’t stand the feeling. Even holding Erik’s hand makes him feel like he’s dirty, that he’s making everyone around him unclean by just being near him. He doesn’t want to see people anymore. He doesn’t even want to see himself.

On this fourth day home, he breaks every mirror in his room. 

He doesn’t say why. He doesn’t even want to speak, but it’s painfully obvious. He only sees how broken he is, how dirty and how outright disgusting he is. How can anyone claim that he’s worth being around? Or how can he begin to pick himself back up? There’s nothing to him, and he doesn’t want to even see himself. How much does he hate himself that he can’t even fathom the idea of someone actually wanting to be near him? He doesn’t look at himself. Doesn’t like his reflection anymore. Doesn’t like the look of his skin and the feeling of silk. 

When Erik finds him again, he’s torn the blankets off the bed and is curled up in the corner farthest from the door. He can’t stop sobbing. He shouts, he screams, he curses the very blood in Shaw’s veins and he can’t stop thinking that it was his fault. 

He should have stopped drinking when the others did.

He should have gone home with the others.

He should have been paying attention.

He should have fought harder. 

He should have been stronger.

He should have--

Something heavy is draped around his shoulders. Something warm, comforting and safe. It takes him several moments to realize that it’s Erik’s jacket. Worn leather that smells of someone familiar and someone safe. The action is simple, very simple, but it grounds him so solidly and pulls him out of his thoughts that he goes rather quiet. It’s a different sort of silence, an empty one. It’s not the same heaviness that hit the world when he was first pulled out of that horrible place. If one had been able to listen properly, they would have heard everything - all the sounds in Charles’ head, all the voices and all the self-hatred and self-harm going absolutely quiet. It was the first time all his thoughts had gone so silent in so long, and all he could do was hide under Erik’s jacket. 

“Do you want something to drink?” 

Erik’s voice gives him something to focus on, but he doesn’t bother looking up yet. There’s simply a small nod. It’s very small progress, but at the same time it’s very important progress. Something that he felt safe in. Maybe his bedroom didn’t seem safe, but Erik’s jacket made him feel very, very safe. 

“Charles, do you want to go down to your study for a little while?” 

Another nod. 

He is helped to his feet, and Erik helps him to the study. It’s far from his bedroom, and the smell of books overrides the feelings of pain and hatred that were welling inside of him. He sinks into his chair, pulling Erik’s jacket around him while the other mutant moved to get something for him to drink. 

It’s a slow recovery, but finally it’s beginning. He’ll be better one day, he knows it. But right now, he has Erik’s jacket, and Erik’s everything. Support. Gentle patience. Quiet affection. 

Love. 

And right now, that is all he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the end! Thank you so much for reading. I hope everyone has enjoyed this, and hopefully there will be more from me in the future. Thank you, thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope this will be a continuing series, haven't written fanfiction in years. I appreciate all feedback and am open to plot suggestions, thank you so much for reading!


End file.
